


Feast

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: ... this is so soft, Body Worship, Decadence, Domestic Fluff, Eating, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Feeding, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food, Food Porn, M/M, Muscles, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent, Smut, indulgence in general, thicc!Eggsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Eggsy's fitness regime has been working him hard, so he deserves a reward, right?Harry is not usually known for taking the easy route, but it just so happens the quickest way to a man’s heart is also his favourite.





	Feast

**Author's Note:**

> When I sat down and thought about doing kinktober, ‘feeding’ was the only thing that jumped out and really, as anyone who’s ever met me or seen my tumblr nonsense might attest, the only real surprise was that I hadn’t already written it. The damndest thing about writing for your own kinks is ending up wasting effort on, then deleting, a further 4k words of gratuitous, s-l-o-w detail that nobody but you wants. I had a ball though.
> 
> It didn’t fit anywhere in the fic but also for your consideration: increasiglythicc!Egg in a “more bulking less sulking” gym vest.
> 
> ** TW here for mentions of strict, arguably unhealthy dieting practices, recreational binge eating and a hint of body insecurity, if they’re sore spots for you. **

 

Feast

 

“Are you supposed to be eating those?” Harry asks it gently, because he’s got no personal issue with Eggsy eating all the brownies he wants - quite the opposite, if anything - but he knows he’s supposed to be on a very strict diet and he is doing his best to be supportive, even if that does feel like navigating a minefield of insensitivity.

“They’re paleo!” Eggsy winces and talks whilst he’s still trying to chew and Harry doesn’t even blame him. Avocado and cocoa powder doth not a brownie make, and Harry doesn’t have a clue what the other dust on the countertop is but unless it’s a very optimistic hallucinogen it’s unlikely to rescue the situation. Eggsy screws his face up in dismay.  “Fuck, taste like it n’all. Urgh.” He holds the pan out to Harry, who respectfully and unsurprisingly declines but ducks in to wrap his arms around Eggsy’s waist instead. 

“Your diet wouldn’t stretch to a real one, just as a treat?” Harry kisses at Eggsy’s neck, partly to try to comfort him - he’s been working so bloody hard - and partly just because it’s bared, smooth and delicious in itself. A lot more appealing than the abomination he’s trying to kid himself is a tray of brownies, at any rate.  “You know, I’m a firm believer that a little of what you fancy does you good.”

Eggsy melts a little into Harry’s embrace, but only physically: allowing Harry to grasp his fill of chest, hip and down over his shorts but not budging an inch as far as dessert is concerned.

“Yeah, well.  I ain’t as firm as I’m supposed to be so no treats for me.”

“Not like you to have trouble in that department…” and sure enough, gratifyingly enough, he starts to stiffen up, his back pushing back against Harry’s chest even whilst he grabs Harry by the forearm to stop him before he can get carried away.

“Oi, pack it in, I’ve got to wash up.  You got some sort of fetish?”

The instinct is to deny it, naturally, but something has got to function as Eggsy’s reward for all the gym work he’s put in lately and carb-less confectionery is obviously not going to cut it, so Harry might just have to get creative.

 

***

 

"Heuuuurghhhh. Waaagh. Blgh," is a decent approximation of the noise Eggsy makes once he's downed the gritty green-brown liquid Harry finds him blitzing in the nutribullet. This is highly unusual because ordinarily when he's fresh from the gym - and he is, bag still by his feet, a damp patch darkening the blue of his shirt between broad, rippling shoulders - this snack would be a protein shake, and Harry has never heard him make that noise about banoffee flavouring, however synthetic. Eggsy turns to face him, shaking his shoulders out, and pulls a face, sticking his tongue out like he wants to spit in the sink. 

He’s always been a martyr to his fitness, always trained well and eaten carefully - a high protein, low enjoyment regime with occasional giddy lapses into chocolate biscuits and entire family bags of crisps - but since five broken ribs had enforced a month of bed rest, he’s found he has to be strict. It's part about recovering his strength but increasingly, now that he’s healed, about the fact that he and Harry are getting married in less than three months... two and a half, in fact, when Harry checks.  Someone had dropped a bridal magazine on Harry’s desk -  _ hilarious _ \- and he’d been utterly appalled at the ‘Your Best Wedding Body!!’ articles and their insidious advertising - personally, if Harry makes it down the aisle with all the body parts he’s currently in possession of in the correct place, he’ll call that a win - but he does understand Eggsy sees it differently… and it appears to be the honeymoon that counts. 

_ “I’ve got three weeks of strutting around in swimwear with everyone knowing I’m your brand shiny new husband. You bet your fine little arse I wanna be ripped.” _

It started with the bulking up to carry him through an absolutely brutal training and exercise programme, and Harry's sure it’s not too much to say it looks wonderful on him but he also knows that Eggsy doesn't see the progress the way he wants to, yet. 

He's filled out quickly - too quickly for his own comfort  - and his clothes are suffering for it.  His gym gear is mouthwateringly tight:  Harry knows without even trying on this occasion that there’s nary enough room to insinuate a finger up the leg of his gym shorts, because he does so struggle to keep his hands to himself when Eggsy wears anything so flimsy, and has spent many a happy moment stroking that beautiful crease where his thigh meets his arse cheek and feeling the bounce in the supple muscle underneath. His t-shirt clings across his chest and falls looser to where it meets his hip, veiling him but Harry  knows all too well -  _never well enough -_ the definition between thick pectoral and rib, his tiny little waist, the sharply defined points of Eggsy’s figure that would be an hourglass on a woman, but just appear... gauche. Like an artist has sketched the ideal form from triangles and lines and not bothered to refine it to anything more realistic.

And for all the skillful tailoring they’re having trouble getting Eggsy’s poor suits to cope with his three hour workouts and his chicken breasts by the weight and his raw egg and kale concoctions in the blender.  That’s his standard fare, so fuck only knows what he’s just swallowed to make him grimace like that.

Lost for what to do with his sympathy, Harry offers him a corner of Kaltbeck from his own plate to take the taste away, but Eggsy shakes his head. 

“I can’t, babe. I’m going on intermittent fasting til the wedding.” He holds up one of the plain white sealable bags his various nutritional supplements tend to come in, and it’s suspiciously devoid of an ingredients label.

“That sounds alarming. ” But far be it from Harry to doubt Eggsy’s absolutely terrifying personal trainer or whatever sludge she's trying to make him live off now. "Are you sure that's safe?"

“Yeah, no - “ he pulls an exasperated face. There follows a completely incomprehensible skein of terms including  _ basal metabolic rate  _  and  _ optimal body fat percentage  _ , something about body building and which is further lost because Eggsy whips his shirt off and slings it into the open washing machine. 

“You may as well be speaking Russian, I’m afraid.” Harry just about manages to get the words to form themselves without saliva actually dripping from his bottom lip, but it’s a close call and he does have to touch his mouth with the back of his hand to check. 

“Yeah well it’s alright for you, ain’t it?” Eggsy raises an accusing eyebrow at Harry’s plate of cheese and crackers and the hard earned glass of wine he’s just about to set down beside the arm chair.  He’s got a point. Harry’s luck is that he doesn’t put weight on at all easily, if in fact you consider it lucky that for all his functional strength he’s never been able to build up biceps worth a damn and his arse increasingly reminds him of an ironing board cover. Nothing like Eggsy’s impossible peach of a backside, smooth and round but firm and an absolutely perfect handful for even Harry’s  generous grip...the swell of it pressing perfectly up into Harry’s grasping thumbs; the delicious diamond it frames the bottom point of when Eggsy dips the small of his back just so, flexing the thick muscle of his shoulders and legs to offer that arse to Harry, to his hands, his teeth…

“-though, yeah?”

“I’m sorry darling, were you saying something?”

“Ha, funny.” Eggsy allows him a find  _ you berk _ sort of exasperated look for the flattery and so forgiven, Harry isn’t about to humiliate himself by confessing that his distraction was genuine. 

Eggsy straightens his shoulders but looses a soft little sigh that betrays how deep this goes. “I just wanna be in the shape I was when you met me.”  

“Eggsy, when I met you you were twenty two, and living off Greggs and pot noodle.” Harry closes in for a kiss, and to grasp a hold on Eggsy’s temptingly bare hips.  “You didn’t have a pound to spare on you and what you had your body had made muscle out of precisely because you were twenty two.”

Neither of them comment on how Harry had responded to Eggsy’s twenty-two-year-old physique: they’ve had that conversation a number of times. He’d been unreal, then, his muscles so tightly defined you could’ve labeled each sinew and used him as an anatomical diagram. That muscle is all still there, hard and heavy, but some of it’s become distorted by its own growth and some of it is covered by a layer of fat… barely enough to be called such, certainly not enough to roll or wobble but enough for Eggsy to squidge his fingertips into in illustration of his point: enough for Harry to do the same but in appreciation of the feel of it: smooth and thick and warm.

“You gotta make sure I’m good. I know I can do it. Three days on meal replacements," he brandishes the bag and winces, but it softens quickly, "...one day of eating absolutely whatever I want, then four days on, one off. “

Now, there's an interesting turnabout. Perhaps one more fitted to Eggsy's completely reasonable needs to indulge on occasion, but it doesn't sound quite right. 

“Anything? And Is that healthy?”

“Yeah, no limits. And Jodie says it’s alright short term. Boxers and that do it all the time. Kicks your body into fat burning mode when you exercise so can keep the muscle but lose the pudge.”

“I happen to love…” it feels far too damning to say the word pudge, even though it sounds almost like the flesh feels - firm but with the most satisfying give.

“Well, kiss it goodbye because I’m going to be shredded by June.”

“Since you offered so kindly…” and Harry buries his face into the barely-softened muscle of Eggsy’s tummy, scraping his teeth over the sloped curve below his navel, biting up the smooth skin to his hipbones and recalling when there was such a hard trench of muscle in that dip for him to kiss his way down; how much Eggsy’s body had turned him on when he was slim enough for that definition to show so sharply … how much it had made Harry want to take him home and give him a bloody good roast dinner. Among other things. 

Eggsy wriggles as though he’s trying to evade the attention, or move it at least, but on balance Harry thinks it might be worth pressing his advantage. 

His stomach is what’s bothered him most, since his injury.  He’s just as fit, thank goodness, back up to speed and capability but his muscle mass is fuller now, bulky where is was once lean and sparing, and his hard work has  never since manifested in the same rigid washboard abs he had before and that’s what he wants. Harry kisses up the line that remains firm down the centre, scraping with his teeth. 

“You’re gorgeous now, you’ll be gorgeous in June,” whether or not the diet works, though he's not fool enough to plant that suggestion. “And I, along with everybody else who sets eyes on you, will be thinking what a lucky bugger I am, and if you’re going to tart about showing off  we will have to make sure we have some  _ very _ long lie-ins or I’m afraid I might not be in a respectable state to wear swimming trunks most of the time.”

Eggsy shifts into the touches and groans. He knows where this is going, and Harry would like to think that even without those remarkable deduction skills this would feel nice: to be touched, and seen, and loved in all the places he doubts, though goodness only knows what he sees in the mirror if it’s anything but perfection. 

“Fuck’s sake Harry.” A chuckle breaks Eggsy’s feigned sigh, and an affectionate hand finds the nape of Harry’s neck for a stroke of a thumb that makes him shiver. “Where was this enthusiasm for making me eat baked salmon and broccoli for a week straight? I might have stuck to it.”

“Well…” It feels almost devious, but could this in fact be a no lose situation?  “Did you say you get… days off, on this new diet?” 

Eggsy nods, a little skeptically but also enthusiastic, like it’s already a prospect he’s very much  looking forward to, and who can blame him? His usual fare is dull enough. God only knows what horror  _ ‘meal replacements’ _ is a euphemism for.

Abruptly, Harry knows exactly how to play this, how he wants to play it, and the tone of voice comes to him without thought, like laying his hand on his glasses beside the bed.  “But only if you’re very, very good between now and then. So how about… you follow what you’re supposed to do to the letter and then we can have a whole day of treats and laziness, and you can let me look after you…”

Eggsy breathes in a little sharply, which is immensely pleasing, and narrows his eyes. 

“Have you got a thing about this, or something?”

“Would it be so terrible if I did, a little bit?”

Of course Eggsy would see right through it, and he’s weathered one or two far less wholesome kinks so Harry can be as honest as he knows how to be about this, considering it’s only just taking shape in his own mind. Has it always been there? 

Something has certainly been drawing Harry’s attention towards Eggsy’s fixation on food since he’s been restricting his diet so stringently, and it’s definitely not that he’s eager for Eggsy to shed any weight. It’s his dedication; his almost catholic guilt around what he feels like he should or shouldn’t be enjoying, foods assigned absolutely ‘good’ because they’re fuel: for energy or muscle repair; ’ or ‘bad’ because they’re pleasurable and forbidden depending on the regimen of the day and Harry always the devil in his shoulder, testing his willpower, tempting him towards  _ just a mouthful  _ of whatever he’s lusting after, because what harm can that do? 

And he’s so beautiful in guilty pleasure specifically; in that moment of absolute abandon when if he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, he might as well wring every scrap of enjoyment from the moment. He’d come to Harry with the makings of a perfect hedonist as it was, and Harry basks in every second spent sharing new pleasures with him, being the corrupting influence and the more he restricts himself the more desperate Harry is to watch him indulge. To watch the gleeful surrender he when temptation overcomes him, to see him basking for a few moments at a time in bliss amidst the strict self-denial he punishes himself with the rest of the time. 

There is laughter under Eggsy’s deliberately accusing pout. 

“I know your game. You’re trying to fatten me up so nobody else will want me.”

Harry just scowls at him because there is no sense dignifying that blatant a cast of a fishing hook with anything like a proper answer. 

“I’ll concede the point when I can no longer do this.”  
  
There isn’t time for Eggsy to ask the inevitable ‘ _ what?’  _  before Harry has put his shoulder into Eggsy’s side, hefted him up into a fireman’s hold across his shoulders and is well on the way to carrying him up to bed.  He actually strains a tendon in his knee in the process but it is absolutely worth never letting on.    


***

Four days. 

Four days, each one consisting of six hundred calories of protein shake, Diet Coke and vitamin supplement which Harry imagines Eggsy tallying in chalk on a wall somewhere - sitting in the gym sauna, bouncing a tennis ball off the walls, waiting for his condemnation to this misery to end .

It’s looking good on him, though. Where he’s packed on muscle mass, this most recent push is whittling it down to marble, showing up the full curve of every group: he’s  finally starting to take on that completely ridiculous Chippendale physique that will look exactly how he wants it to when he’s oiled up with sunscreen, dripping with rivulets of pool water when everyone with a functioning libido has just avidly watched him do fifty lengths in anticipation of exactly that moment. Harry will happily be one of them, and all the happier when Eggsy collects them both a cocktail and struts his way over to Harry’s side where he belongs.

His martyrdom to his diet has itself been entertaining in its way, because nobody has for a moment pretended it’s not a vanity project and every time he theatrically refuses a custard cream with a wink about the temple that is his body, everyone is left to draw their own punchlines about Harry’s religious fervor.  They’re not jealous or scornful; mostly sympathetically appreciative. 

They’re also not wrong.

On the other hand, at other times, it had been borderline heartbreaking: seeing him hungry and looking longingly at people’s mid afternoon pastries; to spot him wincing and rubbing at his side or the momentary flash of mortification across his face a split second before his stomach rumbles and all he’ll soothe it with is devil-only-knows-what blender concoction in a plastic shaker. In weaker moments Harry’s been tempted to urge him to pack it in, but hasn’t he always teased about the benefits of delayed gratification?

It’s delayed for him too, so he doesn’t feel a total hypocrite.  Eggsy’s first ‘cheat day’ fell whilst Harry was mission active, and though he had very much enjoyed the impassioned description of the sausage roll he’d treated himself to Harry got the feeling Eggsy was still being restrained, and whether that was because he didn’t trust his metabolism to be doing what his trainer assured him it would or because he was saving himself for Harry’s promises, he can only enjoy imagining. Either way he’d obviously not stuffed himself enough not to mind the second fasting period that followed: Eggsy’s discipline - and sulking about it - had remained absolute, and horrendously arousing. Moreso when it had given way to a gleeful hour by hour countdown until he was ‘allowed’ to eat something decent. 

The preparation for his evening of indulgence has been some of the fun. Harry knows how Eggsy fantasises about food when he’s limited: last time it had been the prospect of greasy roast potatoes that had taunted him and by the time he’d got the carte blanche to carb-load amidst a hefty training phase he’d been close to drooling with anticipation, so of course Harry had taken every pain to make sure the version he served him were perfect - parboiled and goose fat crisped -  and the eye-rolling bliss on Eggsy’s face as he’d tucked in was worth every second of the effort.

Pasta has been his daydream this time. He’s waxed near pornographic about what he’d do for a bowl of spaghetti and as well he might, actually, because Italian is Harry’s speciality. And cheese, because whilst that’s a staple when he’s cut carbohydrates out, Eggsy’s feeling the loss now his calorie budget won’t allow so much as a scrap. 

“Shall I put a salad together?”

“Nope. Got my greens the rest of the time.” He directs a grimace at his ubiquitous black plastic shake bottle, and Harry tries not to think about the contents. 

“Garlic bread?”

Eggsy’s brow twists and quirks when he begins to refuse out of habit and then realises he  _ can  _ in good conscience.  

“...yeah, why not? Fuck, I ain’t had bread in ages.” Another look comes to his face then: sly. Naughty. “You wanna share some Ben and Jerry’s?”

“Absolutely,” says Harry, not intending for a second to have more than a spoonful. It’ll probably amount to too much but then, he’s thought that about food before and watched Eggsy demolish far more than he should be able to, and that was without having effectively starved himself for the better part of a week. 

Harry preps in advance and lasagne is a nice slow bake, so he can stand in the kitchen doorway and watch Eggsy, in earnest excitement, clear the coffee table just in time for Harry to bring their plated food out. 

Part of the ritual - and therefore the satisfaction - is to lay everything out and insure their utmost comfort before he allows himself even a bite . He’s already changed into a t-shirt and lounge pants, already soft and barefoot. Then it’s putting the film on for background noise, making sure the cushions and blankets on the sofa are just right to snuggle into - JB allowed his bowl of dry biscuits on the carpet as his own treat - and then Eggsy realises that he has sat down without a drink, but by the time he makes to get up Harry’s already holding him out a cold beer. Eggsy looks at him as though he’s presenting him with some priceless artifact, or the moon on a string.

“I love you.”   


“That’s something of a relief, I must say. That’d have been a terribly expensive florists' cancellation.”

Eggsy laughs and calls him a prick; Harry finds space between assembled cushions and Eggsy’s confusingly folded up legs to sit beside him and resists the urge to stare in rapture as he takes that first mouthful of Harry’s hard work. He’s selfless enough, for now, to let the poor boy get stuck in in peace.

This is what happiness looks like, for Harry: a gorgeous young man eating, drinking and laughing in Harry’s house which is their home, free in this moment from even worrying about refined carbohydrates, let alone the unique pressures of their job. And from the noises he’s making, Eggsy hasn’t been quite so happy about anything in a few days at least.

“Fucking hell babes this is...augh. Mmm.” He doesn’t manage to finish the sentence before stuffing more food in his mouth. The main course gets his undivided attention at first and then he remembers the garlic bread, holy grail of things he usually doesn’t allow himself that it is, and takes his time choosing his perfect piece from the very centre of the loaf: soft, molten and dripping in the middle; the crust chewy on the bottom and crisp at the top. Harry’s heard him enthuse about it enough to know this by heart, so he might just have made two loaves to increase his chance of getting it just right.  And if the lip licking is anything to go by, he succeeded.

He settles back, relishing the smooth spreading of pleasure he always gets from watching Eggsy eat, treasuring it and hoarding it away in preparation for the scarcity to come much like Eggsy’s body would be doing with the calories in all that butter if it had any idea what was happening to it. 

It’s not that there’s anything specifically sensual about the way Eggsy eats… no, there is, that’s exactly it, but it’s not all the finger sucking and cutlery fellating one might immediately think of... although Harry is absolutely not immune to a twitch in the trousers when he does tongue a drop of melted butter from the side of his finger. No. It’s the relish with which he eats: the totally abandoned joy with which he savours his food, eyes rolling and natural moans rumbling in his throat which aren’t at all performance. 

He tends to do that anyway, but the period of fasting has made it even better. Eggsy eats that lasagne like a man on death row, melodramatic and rapturous. 

What a funny little loop of satisfaction that creates in Harry, arousing some ridiculous caveman instinct that is supremely pleased by having provided his mate with adequate sustenance, as if he’s gone out and hunted a wild bechamel sauce with his bare hands. Combined with Eggsy blissfully putting things in his mouth, Harry’s body is quite cheerfully insistent about what it feels the reward for taking care of him should be, and Harry is fairly confident in his ability to overrule the urges of his hindbrain, but it’s an enjoyable nonsense nonetheless. 

“Oh, god,” Eggsy says… or at least that’s what it sounds like, formed as it is around a mouthful of pasta balanced into the cradle of a crust of garlic baguette. His eyelids flutter and close as he crunches and chews a big enough mouthful to make his cheeks bulge. There’s nothing dignified or elegant about it: he’s gone a bit pink, there’s a strand of mozzarella stuck to his shining bottom lip and Harry has yet to break him of the habit of talking with his mouth full, but at this moment he doesn’t ever want to try again. “This is so fucking good. Fuck. This is exactly what I wanted.”

Dinner continues in much that fashion. Harry picks at his, eats enough but spends most of his time just happily watching Eggsy be completely delighted by tastes he’s been missing, by the alien sensation of not being at all hungry for the first time in weeks. By the time he slows down Harry knows he’s already overdone it from the way he blows out a laughing little breath and starts choosing favourite bits, sifting through for good parts with his fork until at last the browned, crispy layer of cheese from the top of the bake gets rolled up and savoured bite by bite. 

Eggsy considers defeat with a wedge of pasta and filling still sitting in his bowl, which is the true measure of having provided adequately: Eggsy does not leave food on his plate. 

So of course it’s time to remind him there’s dessert. 

“Awh babe, I ain’t got room for it.”

“Nonsense. I distinctly heard you remind Daisy that you have a second stomach for pudding. Like a cow.” Whether he’d wanted her to believe it was particular to him, or a family trait, Harry wasn’t sure, but Eggsy had been absolutely confident and quite convincing at the time. Harry also hasn’t really ever seen evidence to the contrary.

“That’s what your appendix is for, innit,” Eggsy acquiesces. “What flavour did you get?”

“Half Baked. Sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of?”

By way of an answer, Harry just takes their plates out to the kitchen and exchanges them for one of the sundae bowls he’d rather extravagantly pre-assembled and set in the chiller.  When Eggsy sees what’s in it, his eyes widen.

“Oh my god, you didn’t.” 

Yes, Harry did - in fact - source Lucky Charms from the overpriced American imports aisle of Sainsbury’s, pick the marshmallow shapes out and use them along with Half Baked and the chocolate sauce that hardens on contact with the ice cream to concoct what Eggsy had once described as his ultimate fantasy sundae. It looks like a monstrosity, although he must concede that some of that is the fact he’s chosen to present it in a truly appalling lead crystal dish which hasn’t seen the light of day since the seventies. 

Eggsy is far too delighted to notice. Having been presented with his dream dessert - and Harry had not managed to infer from his avid description whether he had made it and loved it or simply thought the idea was magical - he seems to forget all about his insistence that he’s full and sits up eagerly. Something that’s been perking up deep in Harry’s core twitches, alert and demanding now, when Eggsy opens his mouth, and a silent question-and-answer happens in one hot little glance.

Somewhere between the lingering notion that he needs persuading and the exact mood of decadence Harry was hoping for, they arrive at Harry sitting himself between Eggsy’s legs on the sofa and feeding him his icecream. 

At the first mouthful of sweetness, Eggsy moans like he’s just come in his boxers. But then, Harry realises, it’s probably his first taste of proper sugar in at least a fortnight. He also remembers that Eggsy is not wearing boxers: just the soft cotton of his pyjama trousers and their worn elasticated waist pulled low enough not to press on his full stomach. 

Harry wants to look at it. To see the freshly hewn washboard of his abs distorted just a little by how much he’s eaten, how much is still there to digest, considering that after a few moments he takes the spoon and digs in. He hunts out the best parts though, no longer hungry, simply eating for the taste. 

Harry manages a spoonful or two from the glass himself - finds it a truly horrendous cacophony of oversweetness and weird textures which seem to be two thirds of the fun for Eggsy - and then gives up. Instead he amuses himself by tracing his fingers up Eggsy’s inner arm to where his sleeve is tight around his bicep whilst he eats and, when he allows that, down to the glimpse of his hip bared by the position he’s sitting in. Eventually, Eggsy puts his dessert aside and lays back with a happy groan, magnanimously allowing Harry to continue stroke his thigh. 

He’s rightfully suspicious when that hand wanders.

“You’ve scuppered yourself now, you know. because I ain’t moving, and if you put any weight on me I might be sick.”

“Charming.” Harry is otherwise undeterred, and slides to settle on the floor between Eggsy’s feet.

He was always going to do this, but it’s lovely that the mood comes even more naturally than he imagined. Eggsy is indolent and blissful, almost drunk and it’s just the most beautiful look on him. There’s got to be a painting, somewhere, of a young Dyonisius or someone lounging around looking like he does now, with nymphs on hand to provide him with every whim. No nymphs here. Just Harry, who’s glad he opted for a far smaller helping of lasagne because it means he’s not giving himself stitch when he twists round to kneel between Eggsy’s feet and gets a hold of his waistband. 

“You’re actually serious.” Incredulous, resigned and a bit wondrous, Eggsy makes no attempt to stop him.

For all his enjoyment, Eggsy’s meal hasn’t given him nearly the hard-on it had Harry, but that’s just fine. It’s a pleasure in itself to tease him to hardness: the rate at which his cock perks up suggests the blood flow took an interest the moment Harry got to his knees for him, which is quite lovely, and the rest happens steadily whilst Harry gently strokes and kisses him to sturdy fullness. He saves fully taking Eggsy into his mouth for the exact moment one decent suck will have him standing rigid. 

Eggsy sighs softly, settling in to what he now realises is not a tease, lounging back against the arm so Harry can get under his hips to work his pyjama trousers down and all the way off, setting his feet down on the floor. 

There’s so much Harry could do… God knows, Eggsy’s body has been on his mind enough since he’s been so dedicated to it and Harry doesn’t suspect him of the guile for that side effect to be deliberate… but for now simplicity is enough. He doesn’t push Eggsy’s shirt up enough to bare his belly in case it makes him uncomfortable, because although he wants to, he wants Eggsy’s ease more. Just enough to show the arcs of his hipbones, the dip between, the half inch regrowth of his pubic hair because he wants a fresh wax for the wedding and that means waiting out this month.

It makes no odds to Harry. What’s wonderful is that Eggsy’s stopped pushing him away when he’s not immaculate, that he’s secure knowing Harry will always want him exactly how he finds him. 

And now he finds him relaxed: too stuffed to suck his tummy in; too comfortable to give a damn; too secure or too turned on now to stop Harry going down on him even though he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a tang to his skin because he hasn’t showered since being at work all day, obviously didn’t credit Harry’s eager interest in feeding him quite at face value and so wasn’t prepared for this, but that’s not at all unpleasant either.

Harry takes as much of him into his mouth as he needs to and uses his hand to steady and grip the base of Eggsy’s cock whilst his tongue does most of the work.  Now’s hardly the time for all the gagging and performance - Harry lets Eggsy stay still and quiet whilst he sketches the basics of pleasure quickly with his mouth and his hands, running lips and tongue loosely up the shaft of Eggsy’s cock.

He’s not planned for anything specific: Eggsy’s rarely difficult to please and he’ll ask for what he needs if it comes to it but that feels unlikely already. From such a mild start he’s sighing most of his breath now, a looseness in his hips that suggests a rocking but doesn’t push for more and whether that’s because he’s too full and lazy, or because he trusts Harry implicitly to give him what he needs does not matter at all to the soft bloom of Harry’s excitement.

Harry breathes heavily through his nose, lets himself think about how similar the sounds Eggsy makes with his cock in Harry’s mouth are to the ones he made for being fed, and enjoys the tingles of pleasure that rise to the surface of his skin and make his hairs stand up.  Harry doesn’t do this for the gratitude; he only wanted to pamper him, but Eggsy’s so appreciative, for touch and taste, comfort and luxury; for the sating of his hunger; for laying coddled in softness, getting his cock sucked with sugar on his tongue and a beer by his outstretched fingertips.

“Go ahead,” laughs Harry softly when he pulls back, giving himself a moment’s rest and Eggsy enough chance to reach for his drink without ramming his cock down Harry’s throat and choking him. 

Eggsy raises an eyebrow in challenge, because though not technically enshrined in the letter of strict etiquette it does seem awful manners… in a way Harry finds makes the back of his neck hotter than it already is. And he’s already sweating through his undershirt, so why shouldn’t Eggsy continue his decadence by drinking his beer whilst Harry blows him? He’s worked hard to look worthy of this sort of adulation, so the fact Harry worshipped him anyway is by the by. 

As it happens Eggsy wets his dry, gasping mouth but then barely touches his drink. It’s a prop; scarcely more than something for him to clench his knuckles around as Harry gets back to task with renewed focus,  and Harry would like to think he puts it down so that he won’t drop it to spill or crush the bottle to shards in his bare fist. 

Eggsy’s arousal, his response, is intoxicating and Harry is piqued by the whole idea of his bliss, from his full stomach to the throb of his cockhead against the roof of Harry’s mouth; every shift, every little ‘ _ uhh’  _ of tension sends a shock of arousal through Harry too, anticipation thick on his tongue. 

Harry swaps his attention to his fingers for just a moment, lets his spit wet them enough to smooth their tease up behind Eggsy’s drawn-tight balls and towards his hole, and goes back to sucking him. Above his patient playing Eggsy whimpers and writhes, close and struggling… because he wants to come and isn’t quite there, or he wants this to go on longer than it will last? Harry wants to ask him, but as soon as he pauses for breath Eggsy whines out something like  _ “close _ ” and taps on the back of Harry’s head to urge him back down.

Need seizes at Harry - secondary, of course, to Eggsy’s but his body won’t let him brush by how much he loves Eggsy demanding of him like that. Unusually the exact moment of climax takes Harry by surprise between one breath and the next: he might choke if it weren’t for Eggsy’s sudden sharp yank at Harry’s hair to pull him back when his hips kick. A punched-out breath and a split second’s pause, and Harry swallows down the mellow salt that floods his tongue, his own cock throbbing hard against the inside of his trousers as Eggsy’s pulses in his mouth.

That’s about it for Harry’s selflessness. True to the words he never had to say he won’t expect Eggsy to lift a finger, but Harry’s bloody delayed gratification  has waited quite long enough.

Harry gives in to his preoccupation and lifts the hem of Eggsy’s shirt, rewarded by the sight of the boy’s softening cock drizzling a last spurt of come and Harry’s saliva into the trail of hair blow his navel. The lower muscles of his abs clench and quiver with the aftereffects of his orgasm, and he makes no move to sit up or do anything at all other than watch Harry unzip his trousers and free the erection he’s been nursing since they sat down.

At last taking his cock in hand, Harry finds himself more responsive, further along than he might have thought although he’s not actually surprised; doesn’t care. His hand is more a relief than stimulation and he’s too far, even, to need to chase a fantasy to go along with the mounting pleasure creeping up his back. He kneels up, not thinking anything much except that Eggsy’s body is fatally appealing in every shape he’s seen it and perhaps that there’s no surer way to make that point than by coming over it - funny what seems clever when one is reduced to basic function - but then he’s distracted by catching a glimpse of the wet pink inside his open mouth .

_ Perfection.  _ Not just in its luxury but in the completion of the circuit: the hunger glistening on Eggsy’s bottom lip is for Harry. Harry, who has sated all Eggsy’s other needs, fed him and pleasured him so now he’s glazed-eyed and dreamy and all he wants for is Harry’s satisfaction. 

Their eyes meet, and the briefest of nods is all the invitation he needs. Harry clambers up, ungraceful, standing on one leg with the other knee in the sofa to keep him roughly balanced astride the top of Eggsy’s chest whilst he wrings out his last strokes over Eggsy’s face, the wet tip of his cock just resting on Eggsy’s cheek to steady his aim and Eggsy’s tongue rolling forward to beckon him. 

_ Christ, he’s insatiable.  _ The final flicks of Harry’s wrist are weak but frantic and his much-needed climax comes less as a feeling of impact than dissolving: less an explosion than a dam breaking, the stopper being knocked from all that saved up pleasure and letting it flow out in pulses onto Eggsy’s waiting tongue.

Harry braces his weight on the back of the sofa so that he doesn’t collapse through his weakened knees, and thoroughly enjoys the frozen moment whilst that flush of ecstacy is still dispersing through him and Eggsy poses perfectly still - eyes smoldering and mouth still open until he’s sure Harry is finished with him.  He swallows, Harry suspects, out of sheer laziness, and then his docile gaze turns into a glare at the punchlines he can evidently read in Harry’s eyes.

“Don’t you dare.”

Breathless, Harry tries to speak but it comes out as a half delirious laugh instead.

“Harry, don’t even think it.”

“What? What am I thinking?”  Harry would probably be doing a better job of looking innocent if he wasn’t fully dressed save for where he’s yet to tuck his cock away or give up and strip for a shower, and he can’t quite manage to straighten his face. 

“Gonna wind me up about the calories in spunk, ain’t you,” he accuses, finger pointed. “I can see it on your face.” 

“I’d like to say the same, but…” he  _ tssk _ s and pulls at the corner of Eggsy’s mouth with his thumb. “...you swallowed every drop. And here was me, thinking you were full.”

Eggsy, spoiled enough to be magnanimous, only rolls his eyes whilst Harry sniggers stupidly.  The fabled protein content would also have been fair game, he supposes, but the crassness of it makes him feel slightly queasy and he doesn’t want to risk it.

“Cheat day, innit,” shrugs Eggsy gamely, and if they’re going to meet toe-to-toe as they often do when one of them says something disgraceful Harry’s glad he didn’t push it. Eggsy sets his clothes right and puts the hideous sundae bowl in the empty bread basket, stopping to suck chocolate sauce off his thumb with a little  _ mmph _ of enjoyment, and in that second Harry realises this is not to be one of those simple cravings that goes away once it’s been fed. Still, they’re full an tired and tingling with bliss so he’ll happily call it a night.

Harry’s stacking his armful of crockery into the dishwasher when Eggsy comes up behind him, the touch on Harry’s arse warm but probably incidental as he sidles past to get another beer from the fridge. He opens it, pauses in thought and collects himself an unopened bottle to take with him.  The bottle of chocolate ice-cream sauce sit on the counter for want of belonging anywhere in the cupboards yet, and it won’t get a chance to, because Eggsy picks that up too.

“It’s still cheat day until I get up for gym in the morning,” is all the explanation he offers before taking himself, his spare beer and the dessert topping upstairs. 

Harry doesn’t ask what his plans are, and for the lack of having noticed a wink he’s less confident than he could be that they’re sex related… but considering how he’d react if all Eggsy intends to do is lay in bed and pour the contents of that bottle into his face, that might be a moot point.

Harry wonders how many calories he needs to convince Eggsy they’ve managed to burn in order to persuade him to stay in bed rather than deserting Harry for the crosstrainer at 5am, and where his FitBit is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to the usual crew for indulging my indulgence in this one. If you too would like me to send you poorly timed questions about Harry Hart's underpants, etc, you should follow me on Twitter - @agentsnakebite . It's a private account but only to keep real life out so please do send me a request, I'll accept it!
> 
> Thank you for reading. It's a quiet time in the fandom right now so any comments, feedback, love and whatnot you can send my way will be enormously appreciated and we are still out here making content! Subscribe, tweet, send me a message, let me know you're there and I'll make sure you're hooked up.


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